


Gathering Data

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Effects of Hiatus, Gen, Post-Hiatus, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Two friends meet in concern over a third
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Gathering Data

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to JWP #10: In Search of Understanding

“He stood there,” he said, gesturing to a spot not ten feet away, “staring blankly into space. He didn’t know I had followed him from his practice. He did not even realize I was standing behind him, ready to lunge forward if he took another step.”

Holmes stared over the water, fighting to keep his expression clear.

“He was mumbling, distant,” Lestrade continued, “like he was sleepwalking in the middle of the day. When I tried to talk to him, to ask what was wrong, he ignored me.” Lestrade paused. “I am not entirely sure he even heard me. I was just about to reach out when he jerked, as if waking. I said nothing, and he looked around, obviously wondering how he had gotten to the banks of the Thames. It was only a few days later that he told me he had put his house and practice on the market and would be moving as soon as they sold.”

Holmes swallowed, seeing more in Lestrade’s account than Lestrade understood, than Lestrade had any chance of understanding. Watson’s actions so many months ago closely matched his reaction to a broken beaker just a few weeks previously. There was no way of knowing where Watson had thought he was, but Holmes knew only a couple of steps and Lestrade’s presence had prevented a second obituary finding its way to France.

“Did he notice you there?” he asked, forcing himself to focus on Lestrade instead of the slow, dirty water running just a few feet away.

Lestrade shook his head. “He never looked at me. After staring at the river for nearly a minute, he turned and hurried to his house, his limp more pronounced than usual, even then. He didn’t leave again until he went to his practice the next morning.”

“You had a twenty-four-hour watch on his house?” Holmes’ gaze sharpened, and his question was atypically quiet as he quickly deduced possible reasons for the Yard to be watching Watson so closely.

Lestrade hesitated briefly but nodded. “I used his position as a Police Surgeon to get the superintendent to agree to it, claiming his distraction could make him a target. There was no reason to think that he would be attacked, but the superintendent would not have done anything with the truth that the doctor was his own worst enemy. He never slept, I rarely saw him eat, and he seemed to fade more every day. I doubted he would do anything, but even if he didn’t, it was only a matter of time before he caught something from a patient. I...am not sure he would have cared if he did. It was only a sense of duty that kept him getting out of bed every day, and it was only a lack of anywhere else to go that kept him in London so long. He started fading even faster in the days before the Adair inquest, just before you returned.” He paused again. “You were nearly too late.”

The last sentence was barely audible, but Holmes heard it. His grip on the railing tightened.

If he had returned too late to do anything, it would have been his fault, no matter that he could not control the mail. He had returned as soon as word had reached him, but he would have returned for the funeral, if only he had known. Over the three years he had been gone, there had been several instances when the mail had failed for a while or he had been unable to check for it, but only the once had it carried such drastic consequences. He would never have forgiven himself if he had not made it back in time. Even now, Watson still was not back to his old self, and Holmes was struggling to grow accustomed to his old friend being so guarded.

“Mr. Holmes?” He dragged himself out of his thoughts to see Lestrade staring at him, the same fire and determination that made Lestrade such a good Inspector shining from the shorter man’s eyes. “You asked me to tell you what I saw before you returned, and I have, but I would add this: you can’t do that to him again. I am not entirely sure why you thought it was a good idea the first time.”

Holmes stared at him silently. Do what again? Leave? Of course, he would not leave again. He had not wanted to do so to begin with.

Lestrade misunderstood his confusion. “He lost his brother years ago, but he took your supposed death much harder than he did Harry’s. Then, after Mary died, he had no one. He is closer to you than he ever was to any of the family he used to have, closer than he will ever allow himself to grow to me, no matter that he considers me a friend and I him. You can’t deceive him like that again. If he loses you, he will not be long behind. It’s a blessed miracle he lasted as long as he did this time.”

Holmes nodded, fighting for words. “Thank you,” he finally got out, however quietly, hoping Lestrade would understand for what he was grateful, because he doubted he could voice it. He ignored the way Lestrade gaped at him, too busy staring at the river, what-ifs running through his mind as his grip on the railing whitened his knuckles. Right here, so many months ago, he had almost lost his closest friend.

And it would have been his fault. He gripped the railing tighter, fighting not to display the thoughts that tried to overwhelm him. If Watson had—had died before he had returned, he would have no one to blame but himself. For leaving. For not finding another way to contact Mycroft when the mail stopped arriving. For not finding another way to keep his dearest friend safe. He could only be grateful that Lestrade had been there, as much as Watson would allow Lestrade to be there. Watson may have been gone by the time he did return, if not for Lestrade, and he was grateful for that, no matter that he was finding it nearly impossible to say as much to the shorter man next to him.

He knew Lestrade was still angry with him, but he did not know what he could do about that. Lestrade had every reason to be angry, just as Watson did. He had left knowing he was choosing their safety over their friendship, and he was grateful beyond measure that each seemed to be allowing him back in, even if only a little at a time, even if Lestrade was still furious with him.

“Why?”

The quiet question pulled him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see Lestrade staring, honest curiosity warring with the righteous anger still in his gaze.

“Why what?”

“Why did you leave? Why did you wait so long to come back? You already said you had access to news.” Lestrade made no attempt to hide the anger that infused the words.

He hesitated, then sighed. “The mail was delayed, for months, and when it did arrive, it was damaged. Parts were illegible, and I could barely make out Mary’s name on the obituary. I returned as soon as I heard.” He fell silent for a moment, pushing away the horror that had filled him in the back hallway of a telegraph office. “As for Switzerland, I had to choose between keeping him with me or ensuring his and Mary’s safety. I could not ask him to choose between his wife and me, and with him living away from Baker Street, I could not keep him safe if I returned to London. After what happened at the falls, Moran would have hunted him down to get to me and hunted Mary down to get to him. Watson has proven many times that he would follow me anywhere, and I could not chance either of them coming to harm because of me.”

And yet, that was exactly what he had done. His gaze strayed back to the river in front of him. Because of him, Watson had spent months hurting, drifting, lost. He had inflicted the one thing he himself could not survive on the one closest to him, and he was already beginning to see that the ramifications would take years to work out. Watson’s grief had eased, yes, but the wall he had built was not lowering as Holmes had originally thought. He could see the barrier Watson maintained, but he could not see through it, and it worried him, even aside from how strange it was to be unable to read his friend’s every thought. He could not help if he did not know what was wrong, and he could not discover what was wrong if Watson did not let him.

He kept his gaze on the river but forced the words to come, remembering an eye-opening conversation he had shared with a wise monk in Tibet.

“I…know you are angry with me,” he said quietly, haltingly. Just because he knew he needed to say the words did not make this any easier than it had ever been. If only other people could read his thoughts on his face like he usually could theirs! “And I do not blame you. It—I hurt him badly. I see that. I can no longer honestly say he is unable to act.” He tried to quirk a smile at the thought. “I just wish this was not the acting that he had learned.”

There was a pause as Lestrade absorbed his words—and recovered from his surprise at Holmes saying them. “So, you have seen it, too.”

It was more a statement than a question, but Holmes nodded anyway, glancing at Lestrade before looking back at the river. “He used to be easy to read. His every thought was displayed on his face, plain for me to see. Since I returned, however, what he displays is partial, false. He rarely reveals more than a portion of his thoughts, and he never relaxes.” He hesitated, then added, “It is similar to how he acted at the beginning, right after we took rooms together.”

At the time, he had barely noticed Watson’s reticence, and what he did notice he had written off to Watson being cautious around someone new. Looking back, and comparing it to what he had seen since his return, Holmes was beginning to see that it was less about being around someone new and more about holding the memories of war at bay. Not only was his friend dealing with his grief at Mary’s loss, but the grief was bringing back his equally painful memories of war. Watson had closed himself off, and Holmes knew there was likely quite a bit that he hadn’t seen. Watson had grown skilled at redirecting the conversation, and whenever he tried to bring it up, Watson had skillfully redirected the topic until there was no easy way to return to his question. When he tried being stubborn and pointedly asking, Watson simply ignored it, refusing to answer. Pushed far enough, Watson would fall silent, staring into the flames or disappearing into his room, leaving Holmes alone in the sitting room for the night and unsure how to help.

The weeks had flown by, and still Watson was little better than when Holmes had so foolishly appeared in his consulting room, when Holmes’ attempt at a surprise had backfired spectacularly. He tried to push away the remembrance of the fear that had shot through him when Watson had stared blankly before collapsing to the floor, but he could not push it all away—not when he remembered the hesitance Watson had shown until the next morning, when the new day dawned and Holmes was still around. How many times had memories bled into reality since Mary’s death, for Watson to so distrust Holmes’ reappearance?

The worry that had bloomed on his return still ran rampant, and he had asked Lestrade to meet him at a park bench near the river in the hopes that the little detective would be able to give another clue as to how he could help their friend. After hearing Lestrade’s account, however, he rather doubted he would be able to look at this stretch of river the same way again.

“I hadn’t noticed that,” Lestrade admitted, snapping Holmes out of his wandering thoughts yet again, “but I did not know either of you well back then. He presented a collected front at the funeral; it was only later that he crumbled, withdrew from everyone. I think it took a while to hit. There was a week or so there that he made no attempt at sleep. His lights stayed on all night, and he was visible moving around at all hours. Shortly after that was when I noticed that his words and expression stopped matching his appearance, and I started trying to draw him out of that empty house more. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, but when it worked, I think it was only because he wanted me to think it had worked. He faded more every day. I never said anything, but I dreaded the day that word would come that he hadn’t left his house that morning.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as Holmes fought off his active imagination. He had asked Lestrade out here knowing he would not enjoy what the Inspector had to say, but that did not make it any easier to find out how close he had come to losing his Boswell. What could he do? How could he help? His cases usually involved following a lead until he had uncovered the full picture, but how could he chase a lead that was only in Watson’s mind?

“Do—” The sentence faltered. Holmes swallowed and tried again. “I want to help, but I do not know how.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “My travels taught me much, but I have never been good at this.”

Some of the anger faded from Lestrade’s expression, and Holmes hoped Lestrade realized that not only Watson considered him a friend. Normally, he would be asking Watson these kinds of questions, but he could hardly talk to Watson _about_ Watson, especially when Watson refused to let him in, and for all the derisive comments he had voiced over the years, he knew the Inspector was more perceptive than he let on. He would not have made it so far in the Yard without a decent ability to read people, and now that perceptiveness might be of help to their friend.

Silence reigned for a long moment as Lestrade considered his reply.

“Be there for him,” was the simple answer. “He is so guarded that he would not let me do much of that, so I tried to distract him, with varying success. Doctor Watson can decipher the meaning behind actions, but he will not fully trust his deductions in place of his inductions. You remember that case that turned out to be a trap? The first one?”

Holmes nodded. “He could not define _why_ we needed to get out. There was no data from which to deduce, but he knew there was danger. His induction saved us and several others that day. But how does that apply here?”

“When his inductions do not match the deductions he has started to learn from you, he will follow the inductions every time. You are always talking about data. Give him data.” Lestrade paused again, remembering something. “And make sure it all connects correctly. Given contradictions, he will jump to the worst conclusion. I remember my—” He cut himself off and rephrased, “I used to know someone who withdrew in a similar way, and he had the hardest time believing anything I told him unless time, actions, and my words to others backed it up. Your actions need to match your words. Always. He deduces from your actions. He induces from your words.”

Holmes heard the warning beneath the answer. He would have to be careful. There were times his words got away from him, he knew. Whether he was indulging in his cocaine, caught in a Black Mood, or simply bored, he frequently said things he did not mean, sometimes not even realizing he had said them. One slip, and that could be it. Watson might not let him back in.

Of all the cases he had chased over the years, this just might be the hardest. The Moriarty case had taken years to uncover, and then more years to close, but it at least had been a normal case, with a relatively normal, if extremely in-depth, investigation. This was not a problem of uncovering the past; this was a problem of guiding the future. If he slipped, if Watson decided that he was not wanted, not valued, not needed, the game would be over. Lestrade’s rephrasing had said more than the relationship would have—whoever he had known that had started down the same path that Watson now tread was no longer reachable. Lestrade no longer knew them, and the grief that had leaked into those words revealed why Lestrade no longer knew them.

He barely noticed his hands cramping from his grip on the railing as the knowledge washed over him. He never wanted to use that phrasing in relation to Watson.

“He is my friend, too,” he faintly heard Lestrade say. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

He glanced up, fighting for a response, fighting to hide the emotions coursing through him that he had never learned how to handle, but Lestrade was already walking away. Forcing his fingers to release the railing, he sank bank onto the bench he had vacated when Lestrade began describing following Watson to the river. Lestrade’s warning pulsed in his mind, and he quickly lost himself in his thoughts, unconsciously turning his gaze back to the river as he fought to assimilate this knowledge with the Watson that he had left behind to protect.

It was several minutes before he shook himself and stood. Watson would be back from his rounds soon, and Holmes intended to stay nearby. He might never be able to say how much he valued Watson’s friendship, but that Tibetan monk had been right when he had said Holmes could find ways to show it.

He walked slowly back to Baker Street, Lestrade’s words fighting for dominance over his consideration of the merits of a surprise holiday.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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